"It ain't no way to go—like this," once he said aloud. It seemed a trivial end, without the pomp of storm and the exaltation that comes with the last struggle for life. He longed for the struggle for himself, he longed for it for his vessel.
At last there came a time when he could no longer see the derelict, and he grew restive under the uncertainty. All at once he thought he felt a breath of air across his face. He straightened himself, and held his hand up to the wind. It was surely a puff, and, quickly making the line fast, he hurried aft to take the wheel.
"Get your staysails on her," he told the second mate, as he relieved him. "Set your maintopmast staysail first,—there'll be a steadier air up there,—then get your foretopmast staysail on her." He turned to Drew. "Just bear a hand there, will you?" he said to him.
He heard the staysail run up and the cry of the second mate to belay; then he heard them sheeting it home.
"Not too flat, Mr. Barrett! Not too flat!" he called. "Give her an easy sheet, so she'll lift a little. Now up with the others!"
He saw Hetty's face at the companionway, and glanced at her with half-averted eyes. She was a true sailor's daughter, he thought with pride. He did not object to her presence, for she never worried folks with questions. Then he called to her:
"It's all right, my girl. Don't you worry. Just tell your mother it's all right."
He heard the staysails flap from time to time, and so began to whistle for a wind. "Deuce take it!" he muttered, "why don't it blow?" Every moment or two he stepped to the rail and peered into the darkness to note his progress. They had slowly drifted away from the wreck, the stern of which now lay opposite the quarter-deck of the brig. The second mate came running aft.
"Shall we brace the yards around, and try to get what canvas we can on her, sir?" he asked.
Captain March shook his head.